The other day I was watching NCAA hoops at a friend's house when it came to our attention that there was a perfect storm of close games happening at once (including Butler giving Tennessee a serious run and Davidson coming back from a significant deficit against Georgetown).
Being that we could only watch one TV at a time, we needed to fire up a laptop and watch online pronto.
The only problem was that the first laptop we had was a Mac, and was none too interested in opening the video player.
Our backup was a dusty old Toshiba with the battery pack ripped out. We decided to give it a shot, but were immediately stonewalled by the machine asking us for a password to log onto Windows. Unfortunately, the owner of this antique was out of town. This was an issue. In what appeared to be a good omen, I found a button that I could click on to give us the password hint.
It said the hint was "Payne Stewart."
Our spirits boosted, we began to try the obvious: golf, masters, socks, hat (Payne was of course known for his quirky socks and hat). None of these worked. Getting a little bit more desperate, we then tried "augusta." No dice.
Now we were starting to get a bit frantic. The games were winding down to the final minutes and we really needed to see Butler-Tennessee (all we had on the air was Davidson-Georgetown).
In that moment of desperation, I took a flier:
"cancer," I typed into the field.
And it didn't work. Making matters worse, I was now clearly going to hell. With the ice broken, I started firing out more inappropriate password options, but neither "death" nor "dead" worked. (I know, I really am a bad person.)
Finally, in this darkest moment, we got through to our friend who owned the laptop.
Turns out the password, for whatever reason, was "New York."
The hint apparently should have been: "Place where The OCC officially booked his ticket to Hades."
As one final gut shot, the cursed Toshiba was too old and out of date to load up the video player. So I smashed it with a battle ax, stormed out of the apartment and wandered out to the street in search of innocent people to terrorize.
Am I exaggerating? Barely. It was clearly the worst movie I've ever paid for and not walked out of (last year I did regrettably walk into Epic Movie, but left within seven minutes and got my money back).
There were so many things wrong with this movie that I have no idea where to start. Come to think of it, pretty much everything was wrong with this movie.
One thing I will tell you is that the narrator sounded like Colombo at the end of a six-day heroin binge.
Also, there was also a character named Old Mother. I think she was supposed to be important, but I spent most of the movie hoping that someone would put a spear through her head.
At the peak of my anger, I was pretty certain I was going to throw my soda at the movie screen from about the 14th row.
In the end, I decided it would be more constructive to just put a spear through my own head instead.
Allow me to take this opportunity to say once more that if anyone can find footage of Dikembe Mutombo inhaling helium on Conan (which happened about eight years ago now), that person will be named Friend of the Blog for all eternity. And while that may not seem like it's worth much... well, it's actually not worth much. But you will bring us all great joy. That glorious clip makes the above video -- which is actually pretty funny -- look like the least funny thing in the history of all of humankind.
The tag line to that famous ad was: "I make baskets."
I'm thinking the best way for Governor Spitzer to clear his own name is to make light of it, and put together his own "Client Number 9" ad campaign, which will be done in a similar style to the Antoine Walker commercial.
And at the end, he will simply say, "I call hookers."
If you're going to a Cavs game anytime soon, you would be well-advised to make sure you're in your seat for the pre-game warmups.
Last night against the Knicks (right before he went for 50, 8 and 10), LeBron threw down a vicious through the legs, off the glass, one-handed alley-oop dunk. Bruce the Intern is currently scrambling to locate the footage, but in the meantime, please enjoy this older -- but still rather remarkable -- display of pre-game fury.
During my sophomore year in college, my roommates and I became hopelessly hooked on the Nintendo 64 game GoldenEye, a first-person shooting game in which you could have up to four players drinking Genny Ice out of plastic Domino's Pizza cups and attempting to riddle one another with bullets at the same time.
This addiction of ours officially reached a problematic level when one roommate had a dream in which he shot the other roommate in the head point blank with a .357 Magnum revolver.
We decided to take a break from the game for a little while after that.
I bring this up because the other night I took part in a viewing of UFC 82 "Pride of a Champion" at a friend's house and found it to be oddly delightful -- perhaps even habit-forming -- despite the completely gruesome nature of the bludgeonings that took place.
In part that had something to do with the high percentage of my five-dollar wagers that I won (all viewers were required to bet) even though I was hopped up on Liquid Charge and didn't even know what zip code I was in, let alone being able to prognosticate who might incapacitate his opponent in the upcoming match between Anderson Silva and Dan Henderson (for the record, Anderson won with what I like to refer as the "life strangulation" technique).
Afterwards, I remarked (and someone else agreed): "It's a good thing that UFC 83 isn't until April, because you really can't watch that more than once every couple of months or you'll want to kill people."